The Broken Hallelujah
by Brunette
Summary: It's not a cry you can hear at night. It's not somebody who's seen the light. It's a cold and it's a broken hallelujah.


_Author's Note: So I recently joined Queen Kez the Wicked's Newsies Challenge group, and being the competitious sort I am, decided to respond to Challenge #2. The story must be exactly 1000 words (which means I'm going to have to subtract however many I have for this A/N), and must begin and end with the sentences I shall begin and end with. _

_Disclaimer: I do not own Newsies. The prompt for this challenge came from the Newsies Challenge Yahoo! Group. The title and summary come from the Leonard Cohen__ song, "Hallelujah." End of disclaimer._

* * *

**The Broken Hallelujah**

Everything would have been fine, if he just hadn't been standing there. They'd probably played a million times before, and he knew better. Little ones like him -- they always knew better. They were quicker, paid more attention than the big fellas. Racetrack let out a long sigh, tossing the dingy little ball in the air and catching it successfully in his palm. His stomach had stopped churning like a fevered sweep of nausea. Everything inside him just throbbed dully, and he closed his eyes for a moment.

If he just would have been looking -- or, or listening! Christ, you can hear those wagons from three blocks away. He must have been too wrapped up in the game -- too excited about getting to be on the big kids' team because his brother was sick today. Racetrack took in a quick little gasp. Mother of God, what was he supposed to tell David? Sorry? Appologies weren't worth a cockroach in the Bronx when it came to situations like this.

Racetrack tossed the ball in the air, reaching for it a second time. It bounced off his palm and rolled right down the gutter, into the dark, dripping unknown. He breathed an almost inaudible curse, dropping to his stomach on the road and squinting into the wide, putrid mouth of the gutter. His heart began to thump faster as he glared down the emptiness staring back at him, searching wildly for that stupid little ball. It couldn't be gone. It _couldn't_ be.

"What'sa matter, Race? You want a pet rat?"

The olive-skinned boy scrambled upright, whirling about to meet the heavy brown eyes of his fellow newsie.

"I lost the ball ..."

Racetrack didn't know why his voice cracked like an eleven-year-old on ball. His friend sat down slowly beside him.

"We got more balls, Race."

He snorted, rubbing a hand through his thick, greasy black locks. "So? What if they all went down the gutter? We'd have none. Then where'd we be, dumbass?"

His friend shook his head, pulling a cigarette from some unknown crevice of his clothing. "Want a smoke?"

Racetrack met his cool, ambiguous eyes and sighed. "Yeah. Sure."

He let the opposite boy light the little cylinder of tobacco for him, and took in a quick, unsatisfyin drag. He looked over his friend incredulously, sneering at the calm way he stared down the street, puffing out a steady stream of gray-colored smoke.

"What's got you so easy-goin'? This whole deal sit well with yah morbid personality, Skits?"

The taller, lanky boy turned his attention from the bustling street to his companion, and raised his eyebrows. "It don't sit well with yours, does it?"

Racetracks pressed his lips into a thin line, just shaking his head because he wasn't sure what else to do. "You saw it. It's my fault, ain't it? I said to him, get the ball quick before it goes in the gutter. _I_ told him to --"

"You tell everybody to," Skittery retorted shortly, slipping his cigarette from his lips for a moment of urban-foul air. "I don't know what the big deal is to you, anyway."

"I just ..." Racetrack wasn't sure why he considered it necessary to explain all this to a glum jerk like Skits, but he kept talking, almost against his own will. "The game woulda stopped, and then somebody woulda had to go find another stick ball, and all the kids woulda been houndin' him 'cause he lost it down the gutter ..."

Skittery let out a heavy, long sigh. "Game's gotta end sometime, Race."

"Well this one sure as hell did!"

Racetrack hadn't meant it as a joke, but his friend coughed a half-hearted laugh. He could hear the phlem rattling in Skittery's throat, and the other newsboy hacked a few rough, painful ones behind his hand. The shorter boy grimaced, taking a drag from his cigarette to hide his expression. He stared across the street, at the crumbling building directly in front of him. Dutchy said they were going to tear it down next week -- put up something nice and shining and new. Racetrack studied the wasting brick and followed the dull mortar up to a window of shattered glass. They always had to tear apart the things that are poor and rundown ...

"You think he'll die?"

Skittery just shook his head, reaching over to pat Racetrack's shoulder as he pulled himself to a stand. "He's a tough kid, Race."

The shorter newsboy swallowed uneasily, taking a difficult effort to nod. "Yeah."

A silence drifted over them like a soft, unnatural breeze in June. Racetrack stared silently at the road beneath his feet, unaware of his friend except for his cool, dark shadow that fell over his feet. The sun was sliding behind the buildings, sparkling lackluster in the acrid city smoke. The smell of tobacco wafted thoughtfully over Race's head, and he took a drag of his own mechanically. Out of the seconds and seconds that ticked by, he heard the uneasy shuffle of Skittery's feet as he backed away from the curb. The shorter boy whipped his head around, meeting his eyes in a desperation he hadn't exactly been feeling right then.

"What if he don't make it, Skits?"

Skittery's shoulders rose and fell stiffly, and he pulled his cigarette from his lips. "Then he'll be doin' better than all of us, I s'pose. Way we live ... bad food and bad streets. I figure we gotta be in Hell ... sometimes."

Racetrack swallowed difficultly, chewing on his bottom lip a manner that had become habitual. He shielded his eyes from the glittering fragments of light, squinting up to reach his friend's gaze.

"What day is it, anyhow?"

Skittery's brow furrowed. "Monday the twenty-nineth, I think. Why?"

"In case he dies." Racetrack sighed, attempting a shrug and forcing a sad smile. "You ain't the only morbid one."

He felt exhausted and old, suddenly. Mondays were always rotten, anyhow.


End file.
